


First Gear

by nanami



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Driving, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 06:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16928622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanami/pseuds/nanami
Summary: Some part of Jason has always wanted to drive. He’d been looking forward to it, back when he was still in pixie boots and bright-eyed. But life has a way of throwing a wrench into things—or a crowbar, whatever. So now he’s being forced to contend with Damian. Because by some terrible twist of fate, Damian is the one who offered to teach him.





	First Gear

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to drive stick once like eight years ago and almost hit the car into a telephone pole so Jason's a faster learner than me ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Move it into reverse. And check for cars before you do.”

“We’re in a parking lot. There’s no cars coming.”

“ _Check_ , Todd. Make it a habit.”

Jason sighs before relenting and checking behind him. “Yeah, it’s empty. Just like it has been for the past ten minutes. I know this is a pointless question to ask you, but are you satisfied now?”

“Acceptable,” Damian relents, staring at the gear shift as Jason moves it to the little inscribed _R_.

They’re in an empty parking lot on the outskirts of Gotham, riding in one of Bruce’s fancy cars that probably cost more money than Jason could even dream of. He figured it’d be nice to go for a joyride in one of Bruce’s many cars without him knowing. Like a teenage daydream that never came true. (Kind of hard to learn to drive when you die—get brutally murdered, really—at the tender age of fifteen.)

At least, he was hoping for some joyriding. But instead he’s stuck with a thirteen-year-old kid that he’s not entirely convinced hasn’t been sent from Hell specifically to bother him.

Some part of Jason has always wanted to drive. He’d been looking forward to it, back when he was still in pixie boots and bright-eyed. But life has a way of throwing a wrench into things—or a crowbar, whatever. Same thing. So he never learned to drive. It’s not a big deal. He knows how to press down on the accelerator, and when you’re fleeing from the scene, that’s all that matters.

But he’d been weak, one visit to the cave. He had been telling himself to make that less of a habit, but honestly, Alfred’s pancakes are too damn good to pass up. And then he’d been looking over Bruce’s cars and made some offhand comment about wishing he’d learned to drive in one of them. Alfred suggested he try to learn now, and gave him the hopeful look, and there’s no way he could ever say no to Alfred. Not with that expression.

So now he’s being forced to contend with Damian. Because by some terrible twist of fate, Damian is the one who offered to teach him. Jason thought he was kidding about knowing how to drive. It was kind of a miracle they didn’t get pulled over on the way because of a _thirteen-year-old_ driving a car. Who, Jason’s convinced, can hardly see over the dash.

(Jason had asked what he’d do if they did pull him over. Damian scoffed, said the Wayne name would make the cops drive away with their tail between their legs. All things considered, he’s most likely right.)

Somehow, they made it to the parking lot alive. Damian told him to get out of the car and switch seats, and they’d been practicing moving forward slowly, learning the controls, and everything else Damian demanded.

Jason’s loathe to admit it, but credit where credit is due: Damian’s actually a pretty good teacher. It doesn’t take him long to get a rhythm down, learning how to speed up and break gradually. He’s at least got experience flooring it, so that helps, even if Damian purses his lips when he jokes about it. And imagining the cars sounded pretty stupid at first, but before long he ends up checking his blind spots out of habit. A quick look at his mirrors and over his shoulders. Eventually, he feels pretty confident.

“You may leave the parking lot,” Damian says, finally, like it’s a huge concession. His arms are crossed, but he doesn’t seem mad. Not exactly impressed—he resembles Bruce enough, so _impressed_ would be a weird look on him anyway—but not angry, either. “Follow the road signs. Surely you know those, at least.”

Jason moves the steering wheel to the right, in the direction of the exit. A little harder than he should have, considering the noise the car makes. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I believe you’re ready.” Damian’s frown twitches a bit. “As long as you don’t wreck the car on the way.”

Jason flips the right turn signal on. The slight clicking sound fills the silence as Jason leans forward, watching and waiting for cars to pass. He puts a hand to his chest. “I swear on my grave that I’ll get us home or die trying.”

“That’s not funny, Todd.”

“It’s pretty funny, if you ask me. You just can’t appreciate good humor.”

 

* * *

 

“You know those bumper stickers that ask ‘how’s my driving’?” Jason says, inclining his head toward the passenger seat. But like Damian taught him—while threatening his head on a pike, no less, to which Jason replied he’d like to see him try—he doesn’t take his eyes off the front.

“I’ve seen them around.”

“Think anyone ever calls them?”

“I have,” Damian replies, like he’s daring Jason to comment.

“Huh.” He decides on a neutral tone. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Damian, it’s exactly what buttons to push and when to push them. “That sounds like a Dick or Tim thing to do. Seems a little goody-two-shoes for you.”

Damian turns to face him, and even though he can’t see him, Jason’s pretty sure his eyes are filled with indignation. “Are you implying that I would let unsafe drivers patrol the streets?”

Jason shrugs the accusation off. “What do you even say? ‘ _Hi, I’m Bruce Wayne and my voice sounds like I'm thirteen because I have a cold, can you fire your driver’_?”

“I have no need for false pretenses.” If Jason didn’t know the kid by now, he’d almost be convinced there’s a hint of humor in his voice. “They believe Robin.”

“Damn. I should have tried that. Someone almost rammed into the Batmobile back in the day. You should have seen Bruce’s face.”

“You missed an opportunity,” Damian says, and yeah, there’s _definitely_ humor there. Who knew the kid had it in him? “Robin is a position that demands respect. Of course they’d believe what I say.”

“Being Robin gives you magic.”

“Honestly, Todd? That seems a little—what did you call it? ‘Goody-two-shoes’ for _you_.”

Jason looks over to Damian’s face, and he's actually smirking. That’s kind of a smile, at least. “I think you might be surprised, kid.”

“Eyes front,” Damian commands, the smirk falling immediately. “Or I’ll—”

“Head on a pike, yeah, I get it,” Jason says, eyes snapping to the front.

“I was going to say something more along the lines of taping your thick skull to the headrest, but yes.”

“Aww, that’s all?” Jason bats his eyelashes. “That’s not even a death threat. You’re getting friendlier with me.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Damian threatens. “Head on a pike, Todd.”

 

* * *

 

“Turn off the radio. This song is atrocious.”

Jason cackles. “Driver picks the music, buddy. You should have thought of that before you asked me to hit the highway.”

“We’re switching back. Pull over and relinquish the controls and this horrid excuse for music.”

“We’re in the left lane.” Jason takes a hand off the wheel to gesture in front of him. “You want me to weave through all these people just so you don’t have to listen to the classics?”

“Pull over,” Damian snarls, “or I will make you do so.”

Jason turns the volume control up. The Ghostbusters theme song blasts through the car as Damian covers his ears.

 

* * *

 

The radio’s still playing. Jason doesn’t really know why Damian hasn’t simply turned it off himself. Maybe he needs something to complain about.

“I’m convinced you moved to the left lane to prevent me from taking over,” Damian grouses.

“How long did it take you to figure it out?”

“I have no less than five sharp objects on my person.”

“And I don’t go anywhere a bat could be without my guns.” He’s remembered to keep his eyes straight ahead, but damn if he doesn’t want to see Damian’s face right now. “You want to make it a competition to see who can take the first shot?”

“You’re driving. Your concentration is impaired. There’s no way you could draw faster.”

“You wanna bet?”

Damian grumbles and slumps back in his seat.

 

* * *

 

“Sometimes,” Damian yells, making his damn best effort to be heard over the horn of the car speeding in front of them, “other people enjoy cutting you off. Degenerates.”

“Hey, buddy!” Jason calls, about two seconds from raising his middle finger right at the guy who thought it was a great idea to change lanes while drunk and staring at his phone, or whatever. “If you want to die that bad, try messing with the Red Hood’s territory and see where that gets you!”

“You don’t have territory,” Damian shoots back.

“What you and B don’t know won’t hurt you,” Jason replies.

 

* * *

 

A cop pulls them over. Because of _course_ a cop would pull them over. They’ve got a thirteen-year-old and a zombie in the front seat, of course they would be unlucky enough to have to explain two unlicensed drivers. Jason’s sort of surprised the sirens make his heart jump as much as they do. He assumed after years of the vigilante life that he’d be used to the sounds of the police.

Turns out getting _pulled over_ with no plausible explanation for the whole _not-having-an-ID-because-you’re-still-legally-declared-dead_ thing is an entirely different story.

Damian makes a frustrated noise before flicking on the hazard lights. Jason’s kind of amazed Damian doesn’t suggest they make a run for it. Jason’s kind of amazed that _he_ doesn’t suggest they run. “Of course,” Damian whines. “You’re an unsafe driver, Todd. My tutelage is wasted on you.”

Jason bites back the colorful words that would make Alfred faint if he heard. “It’s Gotham. They’re probably pulling me over for my signal blinking when I make turns.”

The car slows to a crawl, and then halts on the side of the road. The officer’s motorcycle follows them to the shoulder. Cars rush past on the left, and Jason’s head is starting to ache from the absurdity of it all. “I can’t believe _this_ is what gets the cops to stop me. They don’t give a shit about the Red Hood even when I _try_ to get their attention, but they bother someone going like, two miles over the speed limit.” He motions to the cars passing by them, a blur of colors awash in the fading evening glow and away from the officer’s suspicion, the lucky bastards. “There is no way those cars are going forty-five.”

“You’ve _tried_ to get their attention?” Damian chides, crossing his arms angrily and giving Jason a judgmental look. “Are you serious?”

“Comes with the job.” Jason shrugs. “Try leaving them post-it notes on whatever criminals you catch that say _guess who_ , they’ll never figure it out.”

Damian opens his mouth to retort, but the knocking on the driver’s side window captures his attention. Sure enough, the officer is standing there, helmet on and visor obscuring his face, and Jason is forced to recount everything in his second life that led him to this stupid, stupid moment.

The officer’s pretty patient, for his part. It takes Jason a moment to roll the window down. When he finally does, Damian says, in his most threatening future-Batman voice, “There are no problems here, Officer— _Grayson_?”

Jason bursts out laughing, because yeah, sure enough, when the officer raises his visor, that’s Dick. In Gotham. Wearing a cop uniform and a stupid smile. And here Jason was thinking that the day couldn’t get any more absurd.

“Jason?” Dick says, looking like the lottery just called his numbers. “You’re driving!”

“I _was_ ,” Jason mutters weakly, “before you pulled me over.”

“I thought you didn’t know how to drive,” Dick continues, like he’s forgotten they’re stopped on the damn road. “Damian’s teaching you?”

“I intend on making him the _second_ best driver in this family,” Damian pipes up from the passenger seat. “After—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason rolls his eyes. “After the brat who has to sit on a phonebook to see over the steering wheel.”

“Height has _nothing_ to do with—”

“Okay, okay, enough,” Dick says, putting up his hands. “Does Bruce know about this?”

Now _that’s_ a funny thought. As if Bruce would ever let Jason drive his cars. “Nah. You could fill an encyclopedia about the things B doesn’t know that I do.”

Dick’s mouth curls up slightly, but he bites it down. “You don’t need an encyclopedia, Alfred’s there. He knows everything.”

“Man, I owe Alfred my life. My second life.” He’s about to follow up with the _you know, because I was murdered_ reminder, but Dick’s face makes him change his mind. “Alfred knows we’re out here. And now I guess you do, too.”

That makes Dick smile again. “Well, tell Alfred that Bruce’s car has a taillight out. He’s going to be the one to repair it, anyway.”

“ _No_ ,” Jason mock-gasps. “Say it isn’t so. Next time Batman’s chasing some criminals, he’ll have to stick his hand out the window to let them know which way he’s going.”

From the passenger seat, Damian scoffs. “So it _was_ your turn signal.”

Jason sighs. Admittedly, he kind of tempted fate. Next time he’ll tempt fate for some peace and quiet. “I’ll tell him,” he says, turning back to Dick. “What are you even doing here?”

“Some people on the force said that Gotham needed the help, and they were sending people over for the day,” Dick says, shrugging. “I figured I know Gotham best.”

“Come on, I know the Gotham police would never ask for help. They’ve got the Bat on their side.” Jason feels an angry impact at his side. “And Robin.”

“Fine, you got me. Alfred said he wanted to see me.” Dick smiles, as if he’s not casually admitting to breaking the law—not that Jason’s one to talk. “And I saw one of B’s cars. I was kind of looking forward to lecturing him about his taillight, but you and Damian will have to do. So seriously, go back to the cave and get that checked out.”

Damian, mercifully silent for longer than Jason thought possible, finally adds, “Yes, _Grayson_.”

“I’ll see you later,” Dick says, starting the walk back to his bike. “Don’t make any left turns, Jay.”

Jason can’t resist calling out from the window to have the last word. “Impersonating an officer is a crime, you asshole!”

Dick merely salutes them with a wink as he drives off.

 

* * *

 

They’re on some back roads surrounded by trees and bushes, purposefully avoiding any high-traffic areas to keep the taillight from bothering them again. It’s almost kind of quaint. Or it would be, if it weren’t Gotham.

Jason’s almost started to appreciate the scenery when Damian yells out, “Stop!”

The car jerks to a sudden halt, and Jason is thrown forward with the shock of gravity’s full force. Damian’s arm is across Jason’s chest, and if it weren’t Damian, Jason would almost be convinced it was to protect him from falling out of his seat.

Instead, Damian’s arm is there as a warning. “Look,” he says, pointing to a road sign up ahead. It’s a yellow sign with a duck’s silhouette, with several ducklings lined up behind it.

“Duck crossing? Here? We’re in Gotham. Where are they gonna go, some shitty oil pit across the road?” Jason starts to ease his foot off the break, but before the car can even move an inch, Damian growls under his breath. “Damn, okay, fine.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Damian threatens, giving his best Robin glare. Jason wonders if it’s ever worked on criminals—as far as he’s concerned, Damian uses it too much for it to have any effect. “The ducklings tend to cross this time of day.”

“Don’t tell me you have this memorized.”

Damian smirks. “Written down.”

For as difficult as Damian is, he’s nothing if not thorough, Jason thinks. Like father, like son. As painful as it is to admit, sometimes. And sure enough, within ten seconds, a mother duck and her three little ducklings poke their bills out of the bushes to the right and start to make the perilous journey across the road.

Jason wishes he had a camera. He’s _got_ to share that transfixed, wondrous look in the brat’s eyes with Alfred later.

 

* * *

 

“I’m surprised that you’ve picked up this quickly, but it speaks to my strength as a tutor.”

Jason leans back in his seat, resting his shoulder against the window. For whatever reason, he thinks as he pulls into the manor, driving doesn’t seem to intimidate him. Then again, not a lot of things do once you’ve been six feet under. “And honestly, _I’m_ surprised you even offered. Looked like Alfred nearly had a heart attack when he thought about us in close quarters.”

Damian scoffs. “I don’t know why he would. I’m very obviously the best driver in the family. No one else would be up to the task.”

“You’ve been driving since you were, what, two? Was that before or after you started teething?”

“Choose your next words carefully, Todd,” Damian warns, grinding his jaw. He should be careful with that, Jason thinks. He’ll shake his baby teeth loose.

“I didn’t really think you’d actually teach me.” When the car pulls to a stop, Jason starts to unbuckle his seatbelt. They actually arrived safely, which is more than Jason expected. “But hey, honestly. Thanks.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then Damian squeaks out, “You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, the car’s in the shop. Alfred’s got enough on his plate, so Jason didn’t have the heart to push him to fix it. But looking at the car he’s suggested instead, he kinda wishes he did.

“Stick shift? Seriously?”

“Master Bruce has many cars at his disposal,” Alfred explains, like it’s totally normal to have a cave full of cars. “It is only natural that a few of them would be manual transmissions.”

“I suppose it makes sense.” Damian tuts, looking the car over like a hawk circling its prey. “Father has more cars than I realized.”

“Manual transmissions have several benefits over automatic.” Alfred’s eyes look somewhat weary, as if it’s a lecture he’s heard many times before. Jason figures that might not be that far off from the truth; it’s Bruce they’re talking about, after all. “More efficient breaking, fuel mileage, performance, and engine longevity, among others. They are also easier to repair. And,” Alfred starts, the light returning to his eyes, “Master Bruce is quite convinced that they deter thieves.”

Jason doesn’t miss the amused look Alfred gives in his direction.

Damian scoffs. “As if anyone would try to steal the Batmobile. I doubt they’d even be able to get close to the tires.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jason says.

 

* * *

 

They _barely_ make it out of the driveway before the clutch gear gives them trouble.

“You’re making the car lurch!” Damian yells. “Give it to me!”

“Oh, like you know how to drive stick? You’re just screaming vague directions at me.”

“Trying something else is better than making us sick!” He reaches over to the wheel and pulls it toward him; the car screeches and veers right, and Damian makes a face between anger and frustration. His normal expression, if Jason’s being honest.

Jason pulls his hands off the wheel and puts the car back in park as it whines and protests. Amazingly, it’s still running. “Fine. _You_ give it your best damn shot.”

Damian sits in silence, considering his options. He doesn’t even unbuckle his seatbelt. “I’m calling Pennyworth,” he finally says. “Once he knows of your failure, he’ll take pity on you and help.”

Jason sighs and rests his head in his hands. “God bless Alfred.”

 

* * *

 

_God bless Alfred_ is right. Jason has no idea how he does it, but the butler’s got every skill known to man. His ever-gentle voice steers them on the right track, and eventually Jason’s got a feel for it. It still takes effort and some forethought on when to shift gears, and it’s not as smooth as automatic, but at least he’s getting somewhere.

“Well, I don’t feel as though I’m about to vomit any longer,” Damian chides. “So I’ll give you a passing grade.”

“Cool.” Jason reaches his hand over to turn the radio on, but Damian hits it first and tunes it to some awful pop station before he can even blink. “Really?” he cries. “This is what you listen to?”

Damian shakes his head. “Now we’re both miserable. Your move, Todd.”

 

* * *

 

The joke’s on Damian, though. After the third song, Jason starts singing along to every tune he knows.

“I am _never_ driving with you again,” Damian groans.

“Turn it off, then,” he suggests. “We could talk instead. Like, oh, I don’t know,” he jokes, voice rising an octave, “how was your day at school, Damian?”

“Would you like to dig yourself out of another coffin, Todd?”

“See, now your jokes are getting good.”

 

* * *

 

They make it back in one piece, somehow. Alfred gives a subtle nod as they pull into the driveway, and he almost looks relieved. Some things never change; the old guy still frets over them like they’re all little kids.

“And? How did you find my lessons?” Damian asks, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Jason smiles a little bit. Because it wasn’t all bad, not really. At least he can admit he learned more than he expected to, which was “floor the gas pedal”.

“Acceptable,” he echoes, with just a touch of a Damian-esque inflection. “But maybe next time you should ask Alfred how to teach before we leave.”

“Do not mock me,” Damian retorts. “You were a decent driver. But you need more practice. Meet back here tomorrow, and you _better_ be prepared.”

“A personal driving instructor?” Jason gasps. “That never comes cheap. How much do I owe you?”

“One thousand.”

“Sure thing, kid,” Jason says, ruffling Damian’s hair. Damian bats his hand away.

“I try to make you the second-best driver of the family, and you mock me.” Damian crosses his arms across his chest. They’ll get stuck like that if he keeps it up. “The price has increased to two thousand.”

“How about we cut it to fifty bucks, and I teach you the tips Alfred taught me about driving stick?”

Damian puffs his cheeks out. Probably in an effort to seem petulant and get his way. It doesn’t work, because he deflates after a moment, anyway. “Fine. Fifty dollars.”

 

* * *

 

“I said fifty dollars. A trip to a fast food restaurant is not fifty dollars, Todd.” Damian stares down at his food like it might bite him if he gets close.

“It’s thanks for teaching me,” Jason says, waving a fry in the air. He’s kind of surprised that Damian still got out of the car once they pulled up, considering his complaints. “What, you want me to take you some place fancier?”

“No,” Damian replies immediately. “It’s not… terrible here. And Father insists on upscale restaurants all the time, anyway. He seems to think casual dining would be beneath me.” He picks at one of the bat-shaped veggie nuggets he ordered—or, well, had Jason order for him—as if he's a biologist dissecting it for some great discovery.

Jason laughs. The kid's never been great at being honest, but at least he's doing better. “We’ll make it an after-lesson tradition.”

“If you can get us there in one piece every time, yes. That doesn’t sound horrible.” Damian wrinkles his nose, hiding a growing smile.

“You can just say you like the idea.” Jason flicks a fry across the table. “How about something like, ‘ _oh, I would be delighted to, you’re the best brother, Jason!’_ ”

Damian's familiar scowl finds its way across his face, but there's a glint of amusement this time. He picks up his own fry to catapult it at Jason's face. It's a direct hit; Damian's eyes sparkle with triumph as Jason cackles, ready to block Damian's next strike with his arm. Damian's satisfied grin doesn't go away. “Head on a pike, Todd.”


End file.
